Prepare For Trouble (and Make it Double)
by DamnI'mRandom
Summary: Sherlock's in trouble with John, and he'll resort to any measure possible to get back into his good books. (Established Johnlock.)
1. Some Advice

_Disclaimer:__ I own nothing. Sure wish I did, though._

_Note:__ This is Johnlock slash. If it isn't your cup of tea, then there's no need to read it._

…

The door to 221b, Baker Street slammed shut with a force so strong that it was a wonder the door didn't fly off its hinges.

'I'm sorry I caused you this trouble,' Sherlock said, bowing his head and appearing abashed.

'Trouble?' John cried, laughing hysterically. _'Trouble?!_ Running off on your own for three days where I can't find you without informing me is not just causing me _trouble_, Sherlock,' he spat disgustedly, 'It damn near gave me a fucking _heart attack_. Is that all you've got to say for yourself? Because that's not even _near_ enough to get what you want. And, yeah, I _know _what you want.'

He closed his eyes then, all anger gone, replaced by an expression both tired and a little sad, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

'John –' Sherlock tried again, but was cut off by a weary voice.

'Just – stop, Sherlock, okay. It's been a long day and I really need to sleep. I'm going up to bed.'

Oh. He'd upset John. _Well spotted_, his snarky inner-John sniped at him.

'Good night, Sherlock,' John called tiredly to him as he went up to his bedroom - not Sherlock's, which they'd converted into their bedroom a few months ago. He didn't deign to respond, his mind working furiously at this new development. He'd upset John a lot, then, he concluded.

He wondered vaguely whether Mrs Hudson was awake at this late hour.

...

She was, in fact. The elderly woman had been awoken by the sound of John raising his voice much above the normal Genial-John level, something which happened rarely, and which meant that John was really _furious_ - and her first thought was that she really needed to get her door and windows sound-proofed. So she'd heard every single word of their row (well, more like an irate John shouting abuse at an almost statue-like Sherlock for over twenty minutes, and Sherlock trying to respond, but failing miserably). And she'd known that Sherlock would come to her in his 'time of need'. Because however brilliant the boy was, he was equally dense. And what he needed most was _advice_.

He'd been doing pretty well on his own for the past few months, and nothing majorly catastrophic had happened since then, but it was clear that at this particular instance he was out of his depth.

She was waiting for him as he came trudging down the stairs, the door open, the kettle set to boil and the tin of 'comfort' biscuits out and ready (which consisted of jammie dodgers, which were Sherlock's favourites, even though he'd never admit to it out loud, as well as chocolate bourbons, since chocolate was a great comfort food).

His eyes were downcast, his expression a mixture of morose and bemused and defiant.

'Sherlock!' Mrs Hudson feigned surprise. 'What're you doing up at this hour? Shouldn't you be sleeping, or better still, 'entertaining' your doctor?'

She winked a little too cheerfully, allowing Sherlock to look up at her and glower miserably for about five seconds. He then slumped his shoulders with the air of someone admitting defeat - this was rare for Sherlock, but it had been known to happen on occasion - making a beeline for the entirely-too-comfortable couch (he would know - he'd bought it for her with that specific intent) and dumping himself on it.

His landlady then took in his physical appearance – severe bruising on the jaw, badly split lip, had-been-bleeding nose, slowly blackening right eye, two rows of neat, barely-visible stitches at his hairline. He was limping very slightly and grimacing in pain every time he drew breath. He was clutching his left arm tenderly, which had been bandaged up to the elbow. Hair matted and dishevelled, shirt rumpled up, eyes drawn and guarded.

_Ouch_. No wonder John was so angry.

'Oh, Sherlock,' she sighed resignedly, sinking down on the couch next to him. 'What did you do now?'

'I don't know,' Sherlock mumbled.

'Sherlock,' Mrs Hudson warned him as she handed him his cup of tea.

'I might have gone to Aberdeen for a few days without informing John.' He groped in the biscuit tin until he found one he liked and stuffed it into his mouth, already pulling another one out and eating that too.

'Why?'

'What d'you mean, _why_? It was about a case!'

'What case?' Mrs Hudson asked firmly.

It was Sherlock's turn to sigh now. 'We had a case about a compulsive drinker/gambler who often turned violent and went on a killing spree, killing _droves_ of people when he did. And he claimed to have no recollection of the killings when he came to his right senses.'

'So what does this have to do with Aberdeen and John?'

Sherlock tried to protest but Mrs Hudson cut him off. Really, he was the one that usually did the cutting-off.

'No, honestly, I want to and need to know.'

'He'd escaped to Aberdeen, and I needed to catch him. It was extremely dangerous -'

' – but we both know that's _not_ the reason why John's involved in this.'

' – and I didn't want John to get injured in any way possible, I mean, look what he did to me,' Sherlock finished lamely.

'Oh, Sherlock, tell me.'

'I also just – needed some time to think, think about John and I, and I didn't think that'd be possible in London.'

Mrs Hudson inched closer to show that she was listening intently.

'It's terrifying,' Sherlock whispered. 'This terrifies me. I can't – I'm not good at it. What if – what if tomorrow John decides that I'm not good enough for him? And then – ' _And then this is the moment when my breathing rate increases and I gasp for air and I feel insecure._

'Sherlock, love, calm down. Take a deep breath. Yes, that's it.'

Once Sherlock had controlled his breathing enough to talk in proper sentences, Mrs Hudson gently took his hand and put two more jammie dodgers in it.

'Eat,' she instructed, 'and don't wolf it down. Eat slowly. Good lord, boy, if you eat that fast, you'll just bring it all back up.'

And he ate, savouring the feeling of the pleasing mixture of the tartness of jam and the curious almost-sweet blandness of dough while Mrs Hudson spoke.

'So you acknowledge that what you did was wrong?'

'I didn't _run away_, Mrs Hudson.'

'Oh, but in a way, you did. You ran away from facing the truth that you might just love the doctor.'

'I don't do love.'

'And that's what terrifies you. That even though you don't 'do' love, you find yourself feeling that particular emotion.'

'Yes,' Sherlock acknowledged. It felt better now that it was out in the open. 'Yes.'

'So _tell him that_. He _needs_ to know how you feel; you can't just hide your emotions away because they're a gigantic pain in the arse. Believe me, I know how that feels. When Mr Chatterjee and I were out on a date a few months ago – '

'Thanks for the tea, Mrs Hudson, and the jammie dodgers.' He stopped her before the retelling got too detailed.

'Oh, my pleasure, dear. And Sherlock? Behave.'

He merely set the cup down and got off the sagging couch, and kissed Mrs Hudson on both cheeks as a way of expressing his thanks in her help with his problems.

He then took her leave and went up the stairs, making as little noise as possible.

There were times in life, Sherlock Holmes told himself at this moment, when you had to decide whether things were worth it enough to do something drastic. Usually they weren't, which was why Sherlock hadn't ever bothered much. But this time was different.

Because John Watson was definitely worth risking everything he'd ever stood for.

He was now a man on a mission.

...

_T__houghts?_


	2. Into the Night

_Warning: Severe Reichenbach feels. Proceed with caution._

…

John rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand, thinking about their crazy night as he did so.

They'd tracked Sherlock down in an obscure pub in Aberdeen with the help of, surprise surprise, Mycroft, and they'd gone to the Scottish city to get him and then straight back again. All throughout the plane ride in Mycroft's private jet (something told him Mycroft had known about this all along, and resolved to talk to the elder Holmes brother once he'd dealt with the younger), John had remained tight-lipped, which was his way of letting Sherlock know that he was angry, beyond angry, with him. After his more serious injuries had been tended to, his boyfriend had tried to talk to him, to make some sort of conversation, but had met with a wall of stubborn silence. He hadn't tried after that.

John's fury had reached a boiling point once they'd reached home, and he'd lashed out at Sherlock. It didn't mean he'd forgiven Sherlock, and he'd felt a twinge of guilt at seeing Sherlock's confused and slightly hurt expression, but it'd felt good to let it all out.

He changed into his nightclothes and was just preparing to go to sleep when a square of folded paper placed on his chest of drawers caught his eye. He hadn't been in this room in months, preferring to sleep in Sherlock's more comfortable one. Most of his things were in Sherlock's room, so he barely had to come up here. He went over to take a look and sucked in a sharp breath when he saw what it was.

It was the letter he'd written to Sherlock when the latter had been... not at home. _He hadn't been dead,_ he had to remind himself when he caught himself thinking about those three dark years when Sherlock hadn't been around. It'd been a time when he hadn't been sure of anything around him, and so had opted to vent his feelings in this letter one night after a drink too many. Sherlock had never seen it and never would. Only John knew of its existence.

The letter had been written in a shaky hand and was worn at the edges. He'd read and re-read his own words enough times to know the letter by heart, but reading it each time caused him yet another wave of heartache. It was tear-stained at places from where John had relived his pain over and over again. He felt drawn to it, picking it up almost robotically and unfolding it delicately, as if it would tear if he applied even an iota more force.

_Sherlock,_

_It's been exactly three-hundred and seventy-seven days since you jumped off the roof of St. Bart's. _

_Yeah, I've been keeping count. _

_It's a few days before Valentine's Day, and everywhere I go, it's pink and red and so disgustingly cheerful. I hate it. I know you would, too, if you were here. _

_I need you. I need to know that you aren't dead, even though you are. I think I'm... losing my marbles. Going mad. _

_I want you back from the dead so we can solve crimes together again, I want to feel that rush of adrenaline and thrill and I want to shout at you for keeping body parts all over the house and I want you to not care about what I think. I want my best friend back. It's getting irritating now, staying on, living longer than you, waiting for something_ eventful _to happen in my life. _

_I've been reassessing my feelings (I've been doing that a lot these days - look at what you're reduced me to!) and I think what I felt for you these past two years was quite more than just friendship. But then you fell, and..._

_Dammit, Sherlock! You can't just leave me here like this! You can't make me feel alive again and then just get taken away from me. _

_I think I'll just come visit you wherever you are – Heaven or Hell, it doesn't really matter. Because whichever weird place you're in, I'm going to be there with you. _

_This might be the last time, so I just want to ask – how does it feel? To die, I mean. Is it painless, blissful? Because I could use some painless right now. _

_I was so alone, and I owe you so much. More than you know. Thank you for that. _

_I love you, Sherlock. _

_John_

And he'd seriously considered committing suicide after that. He'd sat in his armchair that night for the longest time, staring blankly at the smiley face on the wall opposite, gun in hand. It'd been sheer luck that Mrs Hudson had come upstairs to check up on him and had found him pointing the gun towards his temple.

Thinking about it brought back old demons, so he tried to push those thoughts aside. What mattered was _now_.

Someone (it could only be Sherlock) opened the ajar door slightly, making him jump. He hurriedly folded the letter up again.

'John?' that rich baritone asked cautiously. 'Are you alright?'

'Y-yes, fine. What d'you want, Sherlock?' he said in a clipped voice.

'To apologise. And to tell you something.'

'The great Sherlock Holmes apologising? Who put you up to this?' he teased.

'You might want to consider shutting up now.'

'If you think that it'll make – '

A gentle hand circled his wrist and Sherlock's breath ghosted over his neck, his body aligning perfectly with the doctor's. 'Shh,' John heard.

'I'm sorry, John,' Sherlock breathed. 'I really am.'

'That's not quite enough, Sherlock, you need to do much better than that,' John whispered back, unrelenting.

'I need to tell you something.' But before he could do so, he caught sight of the paper in John's hand. 'What's that?'

'Oh – that, that's nothing, just a piece of paper I found on my table. So what did you want to tell me?' he tried desperately to divert Sherlock's attention from the paper.

'It's not nothing.' He took in John's haggard face and elevated heartbeat, and plucked the paper from John's trembling hands.

He read it quickly and took a good, long look at his boyfriend.

'Why didn't you tell me?' he asked sadly.

'I couldn't. I wasn't strong enough.' Violent sobs wracked him and he clung tighter to Sherlock, clutching fistfuls of Sherlock's shirt.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around the shorter man and held him close, letting the dark storm abate. 'John, you are the strongest, bravest and most loyal person I've ever had the fortune of meeting. Don't ever forget that. And I love you all the more because of everything you've done and continue to do for me.'

There, he'd said it. And John hadn't failed to notice. He glanced up at Sherlock, disbelieving. There were still a few tears in his eyes.

'I love you, John,' Sherlock said again, slowly this time, a small, wry smile playing on his lips.

John gave him a wide grin and shook his head.

'Don't think this solves anything, genius,' he said before snogging Sherlock thoroughly.

...

_Thoughts?_


	3. Making Amends

_I apologise beforehand if the characters seem sort-of OOC. _

…

Despite John's resolution that he wouldn't forgive Sherlock for running off, it was hard not to after a mind-blowing night of sex. As they lay on the bed, exhausted to the core, he asked, 'So why did you run off?'

'I didn't run off.'

'You know you did. What are you afraid of?' he asked softly.

Sherlock sighed. 'This... everything. What we're doing here. Sentiment... sentiment scares me. I mean, it's okay in small amounts, but when it overwhelms me like it did that day...' He shook his head. 'I just needed time to think. And I couldn't do that when all I could think about was you.'

John took his hand and kissed each of the knuckles in turn.

'Good night, drama queen. Try not to stay up too long.'

...

John woke up the next morning feeling ridiculously happy. It took him a short while to remember exactly why he was so. _Sherlock Holmes loves me?_ John thought incredulously. He was positively bouncing with happiness at the thought.

He came yawning downstairs to find that delicious smell accompanying freshly-made breakfast. He resolved to thank Mrs Hudson for her help, even though she claimed she wasn't their housekeeper.

'Good morning, John,' Sherlock said brightly from behind his newspaper.

'Uh, yeah, good morning to you, too,' John said confusedly, taking the chair in front of Sherlock's at the dining table. Why was Sherlock so happy? Was that his way of warning John that there were fresh epidermis peelings in the toaster? He didn't want to know.

'Sherlock, is there anything in the toaster?'

'Why would there be?'

'I dunno, you're just really cheery today, and – wait, are you eating?'

He was indeed. And a proper English breakfast – scrambled eggs on toast, baked beans, three sausages, rashers of bacon on the side and a glass of orange juice.

'I hope you don't object to breakfast. I made you some.'

'_You_ cooked?' John asked, incredulous.

'Really, John, I _did_ survive before you. I know how to cook. It's simple chemistry.' Sherlock looked offended.

'No, but... I've never seen you cook before.'

'You haven't seen me break-dancing, either.'

'Now there's something I'd pay to see. I bet you'd even make wearing Crocs look sexy.'

'Mm. What're Crocs?'

'You haven't heard of – never mind. Where's breakfast? I'm starving.'

Sherlock pushed a plate piled high with food in front of him. As John shovelled the surprisingly tasty scrambled eggs into his mouth, Sherlock sneaked glances at him from behind the newspaper to gauge his reaction.

Once breakfast was polished off, John smiled with satisfaction and kissed Sherlock sweetly.

'That was wonderful. Thank you.'

Sherlock positively glowed under the praise.

'Is there any yoghurt left? I'd love some.'

'Erm, John, about that...'

'What _now?_' John asked exasperatedly.

'I don't think eating that yoghurt would be a good idea...'

'Sherlock Holmes, what did you put in that yoghurt?'

...

They quickly fell back into their usual routine. John remained a little distant, however, after that night. Sherlock knew that he needed time to get back to feeling emotionally balanced again and let him be. After reading that letter... well, it'd opened his eyes. He'd known that those three years apart had been bad for John, just not how bad. Now that he did, he could see the enormity of his disappearing to Aberdeen and how it'd brought back old memories best left abandoned for John.

And so he waited.

Intimate actions became a no-no, and John shied away from Sherlock's every touch. Sex, obviously, was out of the question. He answered vaguely to each question Sherlock asked, and was no less than professional at crime scenes.

It had begun to worry him.

'John,' he tried one evening a few weeks after the incident.

'Hmm?' John was intently watching Doctor Who, chewing the side of his thumb almost out of habit. It was adorable.

'Are you quite sure you're alright?'

'Yes, of course I'm alright.'

'But you've been... distant these past few weeks.'

'Now you know how I feel every time,' John muttered slightly bitterly, never taking his eyes off David Tennant. He was staring at the Doctor with such intensity that Sherlock was beginning to feel a little jealous.

'Oh.' Sherlock withdrew, hurt. He stiffened unconsciously.

'I-I'm so sorry, I didn't – ' John looked Sherlock in the eye, only now realising what he'd done.

'It's okay. I wish you'd forgive me.'

'I... agh, dammit, I do forgive you, Sherlock. But it's just... it's hard for me too, you know. You scared me shitless when you just disappeared. I thought Moriarty had come back somehow and he'd managed to capture you. I-I didn't know what to do; I just sat there 'til Lestrade came to tell me you'd gone missing. It still scares me so much that one day I'll wake up and you'll be gone, and I wouldn't find you anywhere. And I'll be left with my feelings again. What if you get bored of me, huh, Sherlock? What then? What if I was just some sort of experiment that you happened to carry on for a long time?'

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. 'Bored of you? Why would I get bored of you? I may be different than most of the women you went out with, and I can't change who I am in an instant just because I'm in a relationship, John – '

' – I don't expect you to – '

' – but I would never get bored of you. You mean too much to me. I need you. I love you.'

John appeared satisfied. Sherlock noticed that, beyond the letter, his boyfriend had never said it back to him out loud.

It hardly mattered, anyway.

'C'mon,' John said, scooting over to make room for Sherlock. 'Let's watch Doctor Who together. David Tennant is just amazing, isn't he?' Sherlock sat down next to him, snuggling closer to his doctor. 'He's so sassy it hurts.'

'Have I got competition, then?' he asked in a low voice, nibbling on John's earlobe, making him moan.

'No, ungh, no – of course not,' John replied, his breathing shallow.

'Good,' that chocolaty voice rumbled before swooping down towards his neck.

'Oh god, I've missed this,' John said breathily, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck and climbing onto his lap. All thoughts of having a quiet evening watching Doctor Who with Sherlock fled his mind in an instant.

'Me too,' Sherlock said, smiling, before unexpectedly capturing John's mouth with his own, eliciting a needy groan from the doctor.

'Sherlock...' John broke away, hesitant.

'Yes, John?'

'Uh... not on the couch. We could get caught by Mrs Hudson again.' He bowed his head.

'What?' Sherlock was disoriented from all that kissing. 'Oh yes, of course. The bedroom.'

John led the way, obviously embarrassed. Once they were safely ensconced in the privacy of their bedroom, John sat on the edge of the bed, obviously fighting with himself.

'I – uh, Sherlock, I – '

Sensing his discomfort, Sherlock gently lifted John's face with the crook of his finger to look up at him.

'All in your own time, love. You don't have to say it right now, you know.'

John smiled gratefully. It wasn't that he didn't love Sherlock; he'd always had difficulty saying it out loud to anyone.

'All the same, you know what I mean, don't you?' He kissed Sherlock passionately, conveying exactly how he felt towards the other man.

As he stripped his boyfriend of his unnecessary layers of clothing, he said with unexpected warmth, 'I do, John. I do.'

...

_Thoughts?_


	4. Still Bored

_This contains __slash__. That means male/male making out/sex. If it isn't your cup of tea, I suggest you stop reading._

…

The new week brought with it a new case, not necessarily an interesting one, though. Still, it was better than not having one and driving John up the wall. Not that John was complaining about the _I'm-frustrated-entertain-me_ sex, but what Sherlock really needed was a case, _any_ case.

This one didn't look very promising.

They were at the bank of the Thames, between two Porta-Potties, it was six-thirty on Monday morning and both Sherlock and John weren't in the best of moods. They'd been interrupted in the middle of crucial sleep (snatched after three satisfying bouts of shagging the night before) by Lestrade's urgent phone call. They'd tried to reason with him, but he was manic and hadn't listened. He'd sounded hyperactive but sluggish at the same time, as if he'd stayed up all night at the Yard. Too much caffeine did that to you sometimes.

'So, what've we got?' Sherlock asked the Detective Inspector, yawning briefly and snapping on his surgical gloves.

John rubbed his eyes blearily, squinting at the rising sun, following Sherlock haphazardly through the lines of police tape.

'Lillian Porter, forty-five, Managing Partner for top law firm Porter and Dawson. Found here by a jogger who was going by on her daily run.'

'And you've called us here because?' John snapped. There really seemed no reason for them to be there. The Yard could solve this one on their own.

Lestrade ignored the question. 'So, Sherlock, what can you tell me?'

Sherlock crouched down, running his eyes over every aspect of the victim, pausing once or twice to look at the contents of the lady's pockets. He beckoned to John to follow him on the ground.

'What was her time of death, John?'

John peered at the body. 'Er, I'd say between eleven and twelve o'clock last night.'

'Okay, so. She was married, very happily so, I would say, owing to the fact that she'd kept a picture of both her husband and her daughter in her wallet; you don't find too many people with unhappy marriages doing that these days. She's quite pretty for a woman of her advancing age. She was very successful at her job - proof of which can be found in the firm's name. She was having a late night in at the office, finishing up the paperwork after a high-profile case. She drank three, maybe four large cups of coffee; we can see that from the coffee stains on the front of her shirt.

'Was there a young male working at the office?' He asked Lestrade suddenly.

Lestrade looked at his file.

'Yeah, a William Goldsby, filing assistant. Thirty, former champion wrestler, but that took a U-turn when he was charged with attempt to murder at the age of twenty-five. After a few years in jail, he was let out on probation, took up a course on a secretarial position and landed at Porter and Dawson last year.'

'He killed her. You didn't need us for this! Come on, John, we're leaving.' He turned to go.

'Hey, hey, wait! You can't just leave! I've still got questions.'

'Too bad we can't answer them.' John's heart warmed at Sherlock's usage of 'we'.

'Sherlock!'

Sherlock sighed, exasperated. 'Oh, what _now_, Lestrade? You pulled us out of bed at six in the morning, d'you really expect us to cooperate?'

_'You_ were sleeping? I find that hard to believe.'

_'Yes_, I was _sleeping_; I'd had an exhausting night, though I reckon you wouldn't want to know the details. If you see the strangle marks around her neck, they were caused by an unnaturally strong pair of hands, and since you've already told me that that man was a former champion wrestler, I would think that it all points towards him. He'd had a huge crush on Mrs Porter ever since he came to Porter and Dawson and she'd rejected his advances quite a number of times. Jilted, he cornered her late last night, fitted his hands around her neck, and squeezed. And so she died without a struggle. He dragged her body over here, you can see the track marks, and fled. I trust you will find some more evidence and you have no further need of us. And now, we'll take your leave. Good day, Detective Inspector.'

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose in annoyance. 'Fine, go.'

...

'You make everything sound so poetic,' John sighed dramatically, after they'd hailed a cab. 'Sarcasm,' he added as an afterthought.

'Yes, I gathered as much.' Sherlock stared out of the window. John gently took his hand, forcing him to look the other way.

'You okay?' he asked softly. 'You seem snappy.'

'Yes, I'm fine.' John raised his eyebrows. 'Really.'

His eyebrows rose higher.

'I'm still _bored_, John! That little case wasn't nearly enough to satisfy my intellectual needs.'

'Hmm, but maybe I can satisfy some of your... other needs.' Sherlock's eyes widened. 'Once we get home, I am going to shag you so hard you'll forget your own name.' John pulled him closer towards himself.

'Mm, that does sound promising. I'll hold you to that, and we'll see if it isn't the other way round. What about Mrs Hudson, won't we disturb her? Again?'

'What world do you live in? She left on Thursday to go to her sister's. We're all on our own,' John said invitingly, roaming his hands all over Sherlock's smooth chest, 'for another week.'

'How understanding of her.'

'Yeah, isn't it just?' He nibbled on Sherlock's neck, making Sherlock bite his lip in an effort not to moan too loudly.

'John,' he rumbled in a low voice. John understood exactly what he meant and decided that he didn't give a _flying_ _fuck_ about where they were. He wanted Sherlock, and Sherlock wanted him. That was all that mattered.

'Yes, Sherlock, _here_.'

And then John was kissing him on his mouth with a fiercely burning fire and his hands were everywhere, all over his body, and he just couldn't hold it back anymore –

_'John!' _

John grunted and kissed Sherlock with renewed vigour, loving the effect he was having on Sherlock. It was still a novelty for him, even after all these months.

'We're just about home. Nearly,' Sherlock panted, his breathing laboured, 'home. _John,'_ he whimpered.

'Say it.' He pawed at Sherlock's erection, eliciting a loud groan from his lover.

'I want you. _Please._'

When the cab drew up to 221b, Baker Street, they jumped out and _threw_ the money at the cabbie, with John shouting, 'Keep the change!' and giggling breathlessly thereafter.

'Now there's something I do _not_ want to see again,' the scandalised cabbie muttered to himself as he drove away in search of a new fare.

...

What our favourite consulting detective and his blogger slash lover didn't know was that Mrs Hudson had actually come back in the while they'd been gone and had wanted to surprise the boys, but as always, they surprised her instead. The door to the flat opened with a bang and an intertwined Sherlock and John flew in noisily, ripping each other's clothes off, the buttons bouncing off the walls. They barely acknowledge her presence as they headed upstairs, banging into the banister on their way.

She stood safely out of the way of the incoming hurricane with an almost-bored expression on her face, as if she saw two men snogging each other's brains out every day (which she did with increasing regularity).

'Coo-oo, boys!'

They stopped near the top, panting, looking around for the source of the sound.

'Mrs Hudson?' John gasped. 'What – how – wh-when, I thought... ?'

'You two seem to be busy,' she observed. 'Oh, don't let me disturb you; you look like you're having enough fun with me not around.' She winked outrageously at them.

'Well, welcome back,' Sherlock said, clearly annoyed.

'I'll go then, leave you two alone. I'll just have a nice cuppa. I must say, it's good to be back home.'

She couldn't ever have left slower than she did at that moment.

...

_Thoughts?_


	5. What Does the Future Hold?

_Still slashy. Don't like, don't read._

_I am_ _so dissatisfied with this chapter, I mean - stupid computer troubles, who doesn't have them? I lost this entire chapter and then I had to rewrite it from scratch. So, yeah, it isn't spectacular. _

...

They lay silently side-by-side in bed. Sherlock was looking up at the ceiling, presumably thinking of some new way to make life harder for John, and John's eyes were closed, his hand unconsciously caressing Sherlock's cheek.

John reflected upon how his life had changed ever since he'd met Sherlock. He'd thought he'd had his life all mapped out after returning from Afghanistan - get a job, find a nice girl and marry her, have children and then retire peacefully to the country after the kids moved out. All that had taken a turn for the better when he'd met Sherlock Holmes. He'd whirled into his life and somehow made ordinary life seem dull and boring (he was just borrowing these words from Sherlock), making him get used to a thrilling and adrenaline-filled life. Now he couldn't imagine a future without Sherlock by his side. Now he could imagine what might happen – they would solve crimes until their legs gave out, then they'd retire to the country and grow old watching the stars together.

'Sherlock,' he said quietly.

'Hmm?'

'D'you ever think about the future?'

'Of course.'

'You know, before I met you, I had it all planned out – get a job, meet a nice, ordinary girl, have children, retire to the country. Now, though, I couldn't ever imagine that. What do you think we'll do in the future?'

'We'll continue to piss Lestrade off, that's for sure.'

John laughed. 'Yes, but, beyond that. What do you _plan_ to do?'

Sherlock was quiet for a while.

'I don't know, actually. I suppose I wouldn't mind anything at all, as long as you're by my side.'

'Me too. How d'you feel about the Lake District?'

'The Lake District? Why?'

'I dunno, just thought it'd be nice to grow old in the midst of all that quiet greenery.'

'No cases to solve?'

'That's the point, Sherlock. No more work.'

'That seems... nice. Not having to worry about your safety constantly.'

'Mm.'

Silence reigned for a while. Sherlock entwined their hands and John looked down at them, smiling slightly. He put his other hand in Sherlock's hair, twirling a particularly stubborn curl around his index finger. Sherlock closed his eyes and felt as if he could melt at the sensation.

'It just struck me that we're actually a couple,' John said after a while.

'Really, John? After four months?'

'Sherlock, no sarcasm.'

His boyfriend stuck his tongue cheekily out at him. 'We've always been a couple. We just took longer to realise it.'

'And this, well, this is all uncharted territory for me. I've never done this before, and I don't know what I'm doing. And I hate not being in control.'

'I know.'

'But it's fine. It's all fine,' he said, repeating his words from the night of their first meeting, at Angelo's – almost six years ago now. 'This is normal now. It's more than ordinary, and I love it. I love you.' The words slipped out with relative ease this time, as if they _wanted_ to be said.

Sherlock drew a sharp breath at hearing the 'three little words'. They certainly weren't little for him. He held John closer to him as he whispered, 'I love you, too, John.'

John kissed him sweetly.

'This scares me too, more than you can imagine. Despite all my 'expertise', I never really know what to do when it comes to you.' He chuckled.

'Not much use of being Three-Continents Watson, then, is there?'

'Hey! That's a matter of pride. Will you take that away from me too, now?'

'Of course.'

Quiet again. Then –

'I still don't understand what you and Lestrade do every Saturday from six to eight pm.'

'You don't need to, either.'

Sherlock pulled the puppy face, knowing John usually gave in to it.

'No, I'm still not telling you, you can stop making that face this instant.'

He pouted.

'You know, I bet your pout's as magnificent as Angelina Jolie's.' He was rewarded by Sherlock's irritated expression and he couldn't help but laugh.

'You really wanna know what we do, Sherlock?' Sherlock nodded and John leaned in, aligning his mouth with Sherlock's ear.

'We sit in a pub and drink and gossip about you,' he said conspirationally. Sherlock looked cross and sat up straight, staring ahead at the wall.

'Really? Do you two really have nothing better to discuss?'

'Do _you_ think we have nothing better to discuss?'

Sherlock crossed his arms and 'hmph!'ed. John smiled fondly at him.

'Come on, Sherlock, stop acting like a child. It's fun to go out with friends sometimes.'

'I'm a friend.'

'No, you're not. I mean, you _are_, but you're so much more than just that. You're my sunshine, you're who I want to wake up to every single morning until the day I die. You're my moon, reminding me that there's always light even on the darkest of days. You're my everything. I could say that you're my life, but I have a feeling that you already know that. And I didn't mean to sound this sappy, but all of what I said is true.' He smiled a smile so full of love that Sherlock had to turn away so that John would not see the small pricks of tears in his eyes. 'And when we're together, which is always, our idea of fun is usually sex.'

'Touché.' Sherlock smiled wryly.

The combination of the heated room and the warm duvet on top of him made John feel too hot, so he wriggled out of his t-shirt and pyjama bottoms.

'C'mere,' he said to Sherlock, patting the Sherlock-shaped depression in the mattress right next to him.

So when Sherlock turned around, it was to find a half-naked John, and that turned him on very much indeed. He attacked his lover's lips, kissing him passionately.

'You know,' John murmured. 'I've never had this much sex since I was a teenager.' He grunted.

Sherlock kissed a line down John's chest, watching the way John's body reacted to him. It arched towards Sherlock, craving more of his touch.

'Reliving the glory days is an option I'd like to explore, Three-Continents Watson,' he breathed back, thoroughly enjoying himself.

John felt Sherlock's erection above him. He turned them both around so that he was on top instead.

'Mm, I could be tempted,' John said.

He went agonisingly slow, first kissing Sherlock's lips, then his neck, then his chest, stomach, hip-bone and then, _finally_, his crotch. He took Sherlock's hard-on into his hand, and by this time, Sherlock was so close that all it took John was a few, quick strokes and Sherlock came all over John's stomach. John himself came from watching his boyfriend (nope – too _juvenile_ a term for what they were to each other) come.

'J-John?' Sherlock said, breathing heavily. 'I love you.'

'I love you, too.'

...

_Thoughts?_


	6. A Note

_Note:_

_I'm so sorry, but this story is going to on hold for a while, since I'm more than a little busy with school. All those reading it: _

_Don't worry, I'll find time to update it._

_Again, sorry I haven't posted in ages. I'm sure I'll find the time._

_Thanks._

_-__DamnI'mRandom_


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